The Boy Next Door
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: Captain Ridley O'Bannon chose a life among the stars, but she never imagined she'd fall in love there.
1. Interesting

The Boy Next Door

By The Lady Razorsharp

 **1: Interesting**

Some people think routine is boring. Some people can't stand tedium, the same thing day in and day out, or being anywhere that the scenery never changes. Unpredictability is excitement, novelty is to be sought after, a constant stream of change means inspiration and challenge.

If you're an astronaut, routine means safety. Tedium means calm. Predictability means security. For an astronaut, things don't get _interesting_ , things get _dangerous_.

No one knows this better than Captain Ridley O'Bannon, the senior member of a trio of captains that staff Global One, a GDF space station in geosynchronous orbit high above the surface of Earth. Ridley has had her share of excitement on the job (space pirates, _rocket-powered comets_ ), and desires nothing more than long stretches of sameness. Sure, she'll rise to the occasional emergency; these things happen. For the most part, though, it's her job to make sure that nothing changes, and therefore to ensure the safety of all aboard Global One.

It's in the interest of safety that the GDF has partnered with International Rescue to run a monthly test on some of Global One's more complex systems. This was suggested by O'Bannon herself, since she knows first hand how useful IR has been to the GDF's space station, and IR graciously agreed.

Ridley smiles to herself as she sets up the testing modules; she's sure that someone at the GDF agreed in hopes that IR would allow a peek at the amazing systems of Thunderbird Five, but so far, any overtures in that direction have been politely, but firmly refused, on the grounds that International Rescue's software is proprietary.

A hand touches her shoulder, and speak of the devil, she turns to see that it's John Tracy, International Rescue's monitor from Thunderbird Five, her weekly squash partner and guest for the afternoon's test run. He's a little early, but still, a welcome sight-especially on a routine job like this.

"Hey there, neighbor," she quips, as John steps closer. "You're early. Hoping to get in a few games if we finish-?"

It's at this moment that Ridley notices John's expression-intense, expectant, and something else she can't quite place. His eyes, a luminous shade of sea green, are piercing even in the bright light of the control room.

Ridley blinks, resisting the urge to back away as he comes closer still, invading her space. "John, what is it? Is something wrong?"

To her astonishment, John raises a gloved hand and places his index finger against her lips. His finger stays there for several heartbeats, first skimming the fullness of her lower lip and then tracing the bow of the upper. Finally, he lowers his hand and his features relax into a smile. Then his eyelids, fringed with copper lashes, dip to hide those glowing irises a split second before his lips meet hers.

For a moment, she's so stunned that she freezes. His lips are warm and soft, and his touch is sweet, undemanding. To her surprise, his kiss feels as natural as breathing, and she's about to respond in kind when the gears in her brain begin to mesh again. She places her hand against his chest, pushing him gently but firmly away.

"Wait, John-" They can't do this, especially not in her control room. Then she realizes with a start that they're not even _in_ the control room anymore.

John pulls back to fix her with his sea-glass gaze. "It's okay," he reassures her. He moves back a half-step, his hands lowering to his sides. "I'll go, if you want me to."

"No, I-" She takes a breath, collecting herself. "Please, don't go." She reaches up to smooth his high cheekbone with her thumb. "It's just-you startled me, that's all."

He's looking at her like she's all he's ever wanted, as he steps back into her circle and takes her face into his hands. Once again his eyes close as he dips his head to capture her mouth with his, and now she kisses him back.

Something within Ridley must believe him when he says _it's okay,_ because now she finds it utterly impossible to resist sliding her arms around him in return, her palms splayed against his back as she bends, fitting herself to him. _Thirsty,_ the word blurs across her brain, as they sink to a floor that has suddenly gained the softness of a mattress. She is thirsty for him like someone who doesn't know how parched they are until the water is against their lips.

With that admission, the kiss is abruptly not enough, and her fingers begin worrying at the zipper of his suit. For some reason, her gloves are missing, because she can feel his skin against her fingertips, and she pushes him down into the yielding surface at his back. Those incredible eyes flutter shut as she unzips the suit, laying bare the slope of his collarbone. He shrugs out of the confining neoprene, inviting her hands to trace his sternum and glide over the swell of his biceps even as his hands work at her own suit. Her arming cap has disappeared to the same bit of ether as her gloves, freeing her short, dark hair to fall over her left eye. She shivers as John's graceful hands trace her jawline and the nape of her neck.

The world undergoes a dizzying swoop of motion as he rolls her onto her back. Her hands are in his hair, sending the copper strands into disarray as his tongue sears its way between her breasts and down her belly. A cry tears loose from her throat as he continues even further down to tease a wicked thrill from between her thighs, leaving her gasping his name as he slides back up with a smug little smirk on his beautiful face.

 _Very well_ , she thinks, turnabout is fair play, and she raises up to push him back once again. He lands with a yelp and a grin, but soon he's the one gasping as her own tongue teases and taunts. She laughs deep in her chest as he raises himself up on one elbow to draw her towards him. Once gaining her lips, he slowly tips her back to loom above her, eliciting a sharp rush of breath from them both as they become one. With each passing heartbeat, the universe narrows to sea-green and copper and the feel of him as they move together.

She has no idea how much time has passed, but John's breath abruptly catches in his throat and he shudders, his skin going to gooseflesh beneath her hands as he buries his face in her shoulder. Need steals Ridley's words, rendering her unable to utter more than a frustrated burst of noise, and she catches a glimpse of his smile. Then his hands are coaxing bliss from her, adding to what he's done already, pushing her just that much higher-and now she's tumbling down, like a comet flaring to brilliance and then fading to a bright memory.

When she can breathe again, she grins up at him, pulling him down to kiss her once more-

An explosion of sound splits the world, taking John with it, and Ridley sits bolt upright in her bunk. On the shelf beside her bunk, her phone is crashing out some offense to humanity in the form of music; her daily alarm. She turns it off and flings the innocent piece of metal and plastic back on the table, then sits with elbows on knees and head in hands, attempting to collect her whirling thoughts.

A dream. Not real, despite her body's reaction. Even now she can feel the spasms chasing each other just as if he'd been the one who inspired them, rather than her autonomic nervous system.

The question prods at her: _Why?_ Admittedly, John _is_ easy on the eyes, but he's just her squash partner, a friend, commiserating and exulting in the life they've chosen among the stars.

 _Oh, Ridley Kathleen, really?_ The voice of inescapable reason-which sounds awfully like her mother's voice-snaps in her inner ear. If she's completely honest with herself, the thought of John Tracy as more than a friend _does_ cross her mind now and again, but then real life descends and renders the thought to nothing more than a pleasant musing. She doesn't even know why he's in her thoughts right now, except-

Ridley grabs up her phone once more, and checks the daily log. There it is, at 10:00am GMT: _Monthly check from International Rescue._ She drops the phone in her lap and resumes her former pose, her fingers threading through her hair.

John will be arriving in three hours, blissfully unaware that he's been the subject of a dream so mind-blowing that Ridley feels as if she ought to light up a cigarette-that is, if smoking were permitted on a space station.

This, she thinks with a groan, is _interesting_.


	2. Busybody

**Two: Busybody**

"John, you need to get out more."

"G'morning to you too," John quips, stretching his arms above his head. He runs a hand through his rumpled copper hair, and since the gravity's on, it flops back over his right eye without benefit of styling gel. He unzips the sleeping bag and shuffles off to the bathroom, yawning, as EOS parks herself at a respectful distance outside the door.

"I mean it," she chimes, her white lights blinking and fluttering in time with her synthesized voice. "Look it up if you don't believe me. Humans need regular interaction in order to perform optimally."

By this time, John is exiting the bathroom, sonic toothbrush in one hand and tube of toothpaste in the other. He squeezes a dollop of toothpaste onto the bristles, stifling another yawn before applying the buzzing brush to his molars. "Uhm hmm," he grunts through minty foam. As he stands in the doorway clad in shorts and a well-worn NASA tee, idly watching the gravity ring slide as he scrubs away, EOS flits from camera to camera, viewing him from all angles for any sign of distress. So far, he seems to be behaving normally, if perhaps a bit sleepier than usual.

After the requisite two minutes, the toothbrush goes silent, and John shuffles back into the bathroom to rinse. He decides to skip flossing (EOS makes a note to forward to his dentist), then strips to the skin and steps into the cubicle that fits his blues to his lean frame. He doesn't always get to sleep in civvies, depending on how busy he is, but he sleeps deeper out of the suit.

Another few seconds' work, and his hair is once again gelled to immobility, more for keeping it in place in zero-g rather than style. "Okay," he says, putting away the comb and tube of gel. "Time for coffee."

EOS flits to the camera on the track and keeps pace a few feet ahead of John. "Your schedule is as follows," she begins, but stops when John holds up a hand.

"Coffee first, please."

Her reply is just a tad sulky. "It's ready."

True to her word, he is greeted by the smell of perfectly roasted and brewed Arabica beans when he steps into the galley. She launches a bagel (cinnamon raisin, on this rotation) and he catches it without looking, stirring a single sugar and a dollop of soy creamer into his MIT mug. Once again, he steps to the window and surveys his familiar patch of universe, munching on the bagel and sipping from the steaming mug. In the distance, he can see a few flickering red lights, and it triggers a thought. "Sorry, EOS, you were saying something about my schedule today?"

"Yes, John. You have a ten o'clock appointment for your monthly check of Global One."

He nods, finishing off the bagel. "Mmm. That's right." He drains his cup, then turns to rinse it out in the sink. After drying it and the sink, he stows the mug in the cabinet and secures the door. This is the agreed signal to turn off the gravity, and EOS does so, allowing John to float out of the galley and down the hallway to the commsphere.

"I'm glad that you'll have a chance to talk to someone today," EOS chirps as the panels light up.

John cracks a smile, tapping the iR logo in the middle of the display. The logo splits into six icons, informing him of the location and status of each Thunderbird, as well as its pilot. "I talk to lots of people, all day, every day. It's my job, remember?"

EOS spins her lens irritably. "You know exactly what I mean, John. I worry about you sometimes."

"You're a computer. You're incapable of worrying."

She affects a scandalized gasp. " _You take that back!"_

Now he's laughing. "Which one? The fact that you're a computer, or that computers can't worry?"

"Both." If she had a nose, it'd be pointed straight up. "I am _Thunderbird Five_ ," she pronounces.

"Okay," he concedes, moving through his routine of checking first the island, then moving his search into ever-widening rings over the surface of the Earth until his scan is back on the island. "I stand corrected. You're not _just_ a computer."

"And don't you forget it. But I do worry about you, John." She flits to another camera, viewing him from the back as he manipulates the commsphere. "I compile data about things that may cause harm to you or be of benefit to you, and compare them against present circumstances. Notation of a lack of positive items and abundance of negative ones engenders what you might call 'worry.'"

"Well, thanks, I guess." He taps the display for his own station, skimming through data logs that she's compiled during his downtime and scanning the structure of 'Five itself for any anomalies that might need his attention. So far, everything is green, and he lets the 3-D schematic of his station hover serenely, its miniature gravity ring twirling nearly in real time with the actual object. "You're in good company with Grandma and Scott; they worry about me all the time."

"It's our job," EOS informs him, sounding just a little proud of that fact.

The next hour and a half is spent reviewing the logs for the last check run he did on Global One during his visit the prior month. He makes notes and flags items for review while he's aboard, and EOS sends them to the locked file he keeps at the GDF station. Her path to and from Global One is highly encrypted in order to dissuade anyone from following her back home.

"Do you enjoy Captain O'Bannon's company?" EOS asks, after settling back into 'Five's systems.

"She's nice," John ventures. "We've got a lot in common. Makes her easy to talk to, I suppose." He glances up at the white-ringed lens. "Do _you_ like her?"

"I have insufficient data to arrive at that conclusion." The lights turn slightly blue; he's learned that means that she's pensive. "Most of the time that she's aboard Thunderbird Five, you are engaged in your exercise period, which makes conversation difficult."

"Maybe you two should take some time to get to know each other the next time she's here." He shrugs. "Why the sudden interest in Ridley?"

"She is your nearest neighbor, and your most frequent visitor," says EOS. "I don't wish to be left out of the conversation."

John raises an eyebrow. "EOS," he chides. "Are you _jealous_?"

"Absolutely not," she sniffs. "Jealousy is a human emotion, and as you were so quick to point out, I am definitely not a human."

"Still. You were kinda rude to her."

"Lingering threat-identifying subroutine. Nasty little things; I thought I'd gotten rid of them all."

Ah, for a computer that acted like a _computer_ -"Okay, okay. So you're not jealous. I think you two would get along, once you got to know each other. I know she's curious about _you_."

A spin of the lens and a flicker of yellow lights denotes her own brand of curiosity. "Really? Perhaps we _would_ get along."

He glances down at his chrono. "Speaking of, I'd better get moving. Hold down the fort 'till I get back," he quips. "Don't answer the door for strangers."


	3. Conundrum

**Three: Conundrum**

"Sam," Ridley ventures, walking into Global One's control room. "I need to talk to you about something."

Samuel Quinn is the second-in-command for Global One, and when Ridley arrives in the control room, she finds him in early prep for her three month furlough that begins next week. Sam is a third-generation astronaut, a wickedly talented poker player, and probably the friendliest person Ridley has ever met. It's this last talent that has also made him the confidant among the senior staff, and, if Ridley were pressed to identify a best friend, his name would be at the top of the very short list of candidates for the position.

"Sure, Cap. What about?" He doesn't turn from his readout, but when she remains silent, his head comes up and he turns to face her. "Something wrong?"

 _Am I blushing? Probably_. "No, not with the station. This is actually something personal, and I just need to talk it out for a minute." She gives him a helpless look. "Do you mind?"

Sam cracks a smile, dark eyes dancing. "Sounds serious."

Ridley raises a hand to ward off the smirk growing on her B-Captain's face. "It's not, really. I just have something on my mind that I need to deal with before ten o'clock."

He glances down at his chrono. "That's in fifteen minutes, are you sure that'll do it?"

"It'll have to." She takes a deep breath. "First you need to promise me that you won't breathe a word of this to another living soul as long as we live."

Sam's eyebrows climb. " _Wow_. Hit me, Cap, don't keep me in suspense."

"Okay." She huffs another breath. "Last night I had a dream that I had sex with John Tracy." There. It was out.

Sam breaks into a grin. "John Tracy, second son of a billionaire, member of International Rescue? Long, lean, redheaded person of green-eyed gorgeousness, _that_ John Tracy?" He sighs mournfully. "Why can't _I_ ever have dreams like that?" He leans in conspiratorially. "How was it?"

She gives a wry laugh, blushing to the roots of her hair. "I felt like I needed a cigarette-or to go to Confession."

"Hmm, that's pretty damn good." He blinks. "Wait, this is also the John Tracy who's due to arrive in fifteen minutes."

"Hence my-"

"Hence your difficulty," Sam finishes. "I gather that this is bothering you is because you really _would_ like to have some empirical-and, dare I say, _carnal_ -knowledge of the man in question?"

She laughs. "I... _might_ have thought about him once or twice outside the parameters of work, yes."

Sam crosses his arms across his flightsuit. "Well, the simple answer is just to tell him how you feel. This is 2061, Cap. Girls _do_ ask guys out nowadays."

Ridley frowns. "I feel like an eighth-grader at a Sadie Hawkins dance," she complains. "John's a bit of a tough nut to crack. He's alone a lot, but I get the feeling he doesn't mind."

"And you decided to go to space because you're a people person," Sam retorts flatly.

"Point taken." She chuckles. "Still. I'd rather not make a complete and utter fool of myself."

Sam shrugs. "I hate to tell you this, but that's the nature of the beast. It's called _risk_."

She rolls her eyes and groans, pressing the heels of her hands against her forehead. "Ugh. Stupid brain. And why does it have to be _John_ of all people? This is going to make him so uncomfortable." She turns worried eyes on her co-captain. "I shouldn't say anything. I'll jeopardize our working relationship. Then the checks will stop, and Global One-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." Sam holds his hands up in a 'time-out' gesture. "Falling in love with him doesn't mean the station's gonna pitch out of orbit if you're wrong." He levels his gaze at her. "Look, plenty of people start a relationship with someone they meet at work. You've just gotta be savvy about it. If you put it out there and he backs off, then that's your answer to just keep it friendly."

"Sam!" Ridley wails. "You're not thinking like an astronaut. My _feelings_ don't matter-"

Sam's face darkens, just slightly. " _Yes_ , they _do_. You may be an astronaut, but you're still a _person_. Your feelings matter just as much as his do."

Ridley opens her mouth to retort, then shuts it again. "You're right, you're right." She leans against the wall near the console, crossing her arms and studying the floor plates beneath the toes of her boots. "I just wish-"

A melodic chime sounds, signaling the 'all clear' of a normally cycling airlock somewhere on the station, and Ridley freezes as Sam turns to tap the belowdecks camera view. "Sorry, Cap, you just ran outta time," Sam mutters, as they watch John step through the hatchway and unlatch his helmet. "Go and put the kettle on, because we've got company."


	4. Invitation

**Four: Invitation**

When Ridley Kathleen O'Bannon was fourteen, she took the Myers-Briggs test. While her classmates teased each other over their results, it was like she'd found a signpost in a wilderness with the letters ENTJ on it. If her mother had let her, she'd have tattooed it on her arm or over her heart. Finally, she had an explanation to all the conflicting quirks of her personality, giving her hints as to why she liked people but wasn't a social butterfly, and why she had a sense of humor but was never the class clown. It told her why she was the one making the appointments with her guidance counselors and college reps far in advance of her peers, and why having her bag stolen-with her daily planner inside-had thrown her into a panic.

Soon, though, she found the flaw in this seemingly perfect solution to life's quandaries. Many a night she lay awake in her small suburban bedroom and wondered: What she would be when she grew up? What sort of calling did those four letters spell? Her teachers and her counselors all spoke about _finding her_ _passion_. Being an ENTJ was all well and good, but it didn't seem to point anywhere, like a compass sitting next to a magnet.

Then during the summer between middle and high school, she'd gone to science camp, and found the stars. Looking up into the vast expanse of inky black on that sultry night in July, she felt like she'd been staring at a family portrait all of her life and had just at that moment discovered familiar faces looking back at her. Over the years, her focus on the goal of reaching those stars has engaged every bit of her, yet has not consumed her or burnt her out.

She's discovered enough about John in the year or so they've been acquainted to know that his journey to his life's calling has taken a similar path, even if it was initially inspired by his heroic spacefaring father. John was raised on tales of space exploration, and that goal has been his true north since he was a kid. Not for the first time, Ridley wonders if Jeff Tracy took a long look at his second son and created a place for him to contribute to society in his own special way, yet still be a part of what his brothers were going to do.

Today, however, she feels more like a silly schoolgirl than a competent astronaut, and her eyes keep flicking over to John. Normally she leaves him to his work, forgetting he's there until she sees a flash of blue out of the corner of her eye, but today she is torn between wishing he'd hurry up so he can leave, or hurry up so she can talk to him.

Stupid brain. Stupid _feelings_. Stupid _autonomic responses_. By the time he does finish, she's thoroughly exasperated with herself. She hopes he'll suggest a one-off game of squash just so she can hit something; if he does, she'll wipe the floor with him.

Hmm. Maybe that's not a good idea. A cup of coffee would be nice. Maybe tea for her. Is there any liquor aboard? Only half-joking with herself, she goes to a workstation and calls up the latest supply manifest, but there's nothing suitably alcoholic on the list. Well, she _is_ on duty, after all, and she shuts down her screen just as he gives a satisfied sigh.

"Okay," John pronounces, swiping away the diagnostic windows and closing down the testing program. "You're all set for another month." He quirks a smile at her. "On behalf of International Rescue, it's been a pleasure doing business with you."

"Thank _you_ ," she quips back. "Wanna grab some coffee?"

"Lead on, MacDuff." They move off down the corridor toward the galley. "EOS _has_ been bugging me to get out more."

Ridley laughs. "Not exactly easy to pop next door to borrow a cup of sugar, is it?"

"No, it's not," he agrees. "For the last month, she's _really_ been bothering me about going home for the holidays."

She's had limited experience with EOS, but Ridley imagines that having a sentient AI tagging at one's heels would get annoying if not downright creepy. "Do you usually get to do that?"

"We try to, although there's been years when our 'Christmas' happens sometime in January. In my family, flexibility is the name of the game." He glances over at her as she presses the button on the coffee machine. "How about you? Staying at the office for the holidays?"

She sighs, folding her arms across her spacesuit. "Well, I'm due for my furlough, but I might spend it holed up somewhere or other," she admits, watching the coffee sputter into the small plastic cup. "My dad's been gone for several years, and Mom...well, the last time I saw her, she thought I was her sister."

He frowns, handing her the finished cup and keying the buttons for his own. "I'm sorry. That's rough."

"Thanks." She blows on the surface of the coffee. "All five of you are still at home, right?"

"And Kayo-she's a cross between a sister and a family friend. And our engineer, Brains." He sips at his cup. "Oh, and my dad's mom."

Ridley smiles; as an only child, she has a hard time imagining being one of five-or, for that matter, being the mother that bore and raised them. "One big happy family. Sounds wonderful."

John rolls his eyes. "Big, yes. Happy...most of the time. You've only met Alan, the baby."

"Yeah, just the once. He's a sweet kid, and a damn good pilot." She takes a sip. "Do you think he'll be up in 'Five someday?"

"I _know_ he will," John replies, leaning against the wall next to the coffee machine. "A few more years, and I don't think I'll be able to keep him away."

She raises an eyebrow. "And what will you do when he does? Pilot his rocket?"

"No," John says with a smile. "I'm not a flyboy like him and Scott." He swirls his cup gently, twirling the creamer into a miniature spiral galaxy. "We'll probably share time on 'Five and he'll still pilot 'Three, but I've thought about going back to MIT to teach physics or out to the Cape to train astronauts."

She nods, smiling at the mental image of John in front of a classroom of eager students-on Earth or in space. "I could see you doing both of those things, and doing them well."

He blushes. "Thanks."

"You, ah…" She keeps her eyes on her cup. "You think you'll ever get married?"

One ginger eyebrow climbs toward his hairline. "Where did _that_ come from?"

 _Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks_ , quotes her mother's voice in her head. "Well, I mean, it's not _entirely_ unheard of in our profession," she hedges, feeling her face grow warm. "I personally know of three married couples who work in space. One of them even has kids." She shrugs in a desperate attempt at nonchalance. "Eden was supposed to be full of families."

"Eden was supposed to be a _colony_ ," he points out. "Thunderbird Five is a monitoring station. Apples and oranges. Besides, I don't think anyone would tolerate the kind of schedule I have to keep." His eyes darken to smoky jade. "I watched my mom go through it, trying to raise four boys, pregnant with a fifth, and Dad literally on the dark side of the moon." He shakes his head. "I'd love someone too much to do that to them."

Before she can stop herself, Ridley finds that she's reached out to touch his arm. "When you love someone," she says gently, "sacrifices like that aren't a hardship, not really." She gives his arm a little squeeze. "It sounds like they loved each other very much."

John thinks about this for a long moment. "You know, I think they did." He grins. "There _are_ five of us, after all."

They share a moment of warm laughter, and for the first time Ridley notices that John has a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. She's never seen him out of uniform, and she wonders if the freckles continue down onto his arms and the backs of his hands, like she's seen with other redheads. She wonders if she'll ever find out.

"I'd better get back," he sighs, and it's clear to Ridley that he's enjoyed himself, despite his gentle crabbing about his prissy electronic minder. He drains his cup and tosses it into the recycler, and she does the same with hers.

"I'll walk you out," she jokes, as they step away from the main commons and into the lower-gravity part of the station. "Thanks again, as always. We appreciate your taking a look at things."

"It's my pleasure." He begins to step into the airlock, then pauses with his hand on the hatchway. He glances back at her. "Christmas."

Ridley gives him a quizzical look. "Major religious holiday, co-opted by the retail industry, happens once a year, coming up in two weeks. What about it?"

He shrugs, turning slightly pink. "What about spending it with _my_ family? I mean, no one should spend Christmas alone-unless, you _want to,_ I don't want you to feel pressured or-"

She laughs, relief flooding her from head to foot. If he's acting like a goofy teenager, then she's in good company. "John, stop talking. I'd love to come with you for Christmas."

His freckled face lights with pleasure, making him look nearly as young as Alan. "That's great! Great, I'll let them know. How about we go down Christmas Eve? Y'know, rescues permitting and all that."

"Sounds good." Ridley makes shooing motions at him. "Go. She'll be comming you any second, wondering why you're out past curfew."

He puts on his helmet. "Right," he says, voice going slightly tinny. "Don't want her changing the locks on me; she's already done that once. Oh, one more thing-" He snaps his fingers, obviously remembering an important detail. "At our house, 'white Christmas' means _sand_ instead of _snow_ , so-" He gestures to her spacesuit. "Y'know, pack accordingly."

And with that cryptic pronouncement, he steps into the airlock, shrugs on his jet suit, and zips away.


	5. Home

**Five: Home**

A week into Ridley's furlough, she is on the second chapter in the third book of her much-neglected 'to read' pile, stretched out on her bunk in her favorite sweater and skinny jeans, cozy socks on her feet and a cup of hot tea at her elbow. If it weren't for the promise of a few days in John's mysterious beachy port of call, she thinks, taking a slow mouthful of cream-infused Earl Grey, she wouldn't surface for at least another week.

It's in this nest-like calm that her comm chimes, bouncing her back to reality in mid-sentence. She sighs. "Just when it was getting good," she mutters, tapping the button on the wall beside her bunk. "O'Bannon."

"Call for you, Cap."

 _Odd._ "Who is it, Sam?"

Sam's tone holds a clear tint of mischief. "Three guesses, and you don't need the first two."

"John?" _Curiouser and curiouser.._.

"We have a winnah!" Sam is almost cackling in glee. "Here you go."

Ridley rolls her eyes; she's got to nip this in the bud if she's going to get any peace. " _Sam-_ "

"Ridley?"

"Hey there, J.T.," she replies, hoping that her tone is untouched by how his voice is beginning to make her heart flip. "Didn't think I'd talk to you for another day or two. Anything wrong?"

"No, everything's good. I was wondering, though: It's kinda quiet over here right now, but you know how that can change. Since you're off, would you want to come by a little early? Just in case something happens on Christmas Eve."

This is all so completely new that for a moment, Ridley has no idea how to respond. She sits up and sets her book aside, wondering how in the world a simple vacation could have suddenly become so complicated. "Sure," she says aloud. "I don't want to put a crimp in things for you. Someone at iR might think I was spying on you or something," she said, only half joking.

"Oh, I don't think there's much chance of that," John says dryly. "Not with our watchdog on the clock."

At this, a new voice breaks into the conversation. "John is referring to _me_ , Captain O'Bannon," EOS chirps. "I will ensure that your visit to Thunderbird Five is purely social."

Ridley purposely shoves aside the creeping feeling running up her spine. If being around John more than the weekly squash game and the monthly check-up means that she'll have to deal with his electronic companion, she is determined to get used to the idea. "Well, in that case, I accept your invitation."

"Please expect the shuttle at sixteen hundred hours," EOS informs her, like some otherworldly travel agent. "You'll be just in time for tea."

The tiny shuttlecraft that serves as the seldom-used taxi for TB5 (just in case the space elevator is out of commission) does not need a pilot; instead it travels on a kind of invisible tether, like a cable car. The end point can be fixed wherever the passenger-or in this case, EOS-programs it, and then it will zip back down the beam to 'Five without needing to be steered. The option of guided flight is there if necessary, but in that event, it has just enough of a booster to push it from orbit and splash down in the nearest ocean, where an automatic beacon will alert International Rescue to pick it up. The entire system is one of those 'failsafes for the failsafes' John has told Ridley about, all courtesy of their engineer, who embraces being over-prepared as a way of life.

It's too bad, she muses, as the shuttle wings its way along its route, that human relationships can't be built with that kind of backup. Well, maybe with a pre-nup or something, she snorts to herself, but the emotional part of a relationship feels more like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute and hoping someone catches you.

At the moment, Ridley has the queasy feeling she's just left her parachute back in her quarters on Global One.

Her selection of clothes hardly fills one small suitcase. Most of her off-duty garments are at least two years old but barely worn, as she spends the majority of her time in an arming tunic under her hardsuit. For the hundredth time, she ponders John's cryptic remark about a white sand Christmas rather than a snow-white Christmas, and she always comes up with the same vague solution: His family home must be near a beach, possibly in the Southern Hemisphere, where Christmas falls in the middle of summer. None of her clothes are remotely stylish enough for a beach holiday amongst the family of a multi-billionaire, though she does have a smart black dress with matching heels (in case she's called to an official GDF function out of orbit) and a pair of black cigarette pants and a crisp white button-down shirt (the heels will go with this outfit as well).

She's particularly proud that she's remembered to pack her pajamas, and while her well-worn assortment of undergarments are not the sexiest, they are serviceable and comfortable. She had time to order something a little more attractive to be sent up with the supply ship earlier that week, but Ridley figures the last thing she wants while being introduced to John's family is to feel her skivvies riding up.

Besides, she reminds herself, this is a _friendly_ visit. She's _not_ his girlfriend, not even his 'friend with benefits,' although just the thought brings on a hot flash. Come to think of it, she's not even sure if John is interested in women, in men, in... _anyone_. Maybe there's a reason John's in space, she muses. Maybe having an AI for a best friend is about his speed, and he likes it that way. On the other hand, _he_ was the one who extended the invitation to _her_ , so…

Much sobered, she feels the heat in her body drain away, leaving her feeling small and cold and determined to behave herself.

When the shuttle docks, Ridley sits calmly, waiting for her presence to be noticed as she always does. In moments, the detached voice of a young girl sounds in Ridley's earpiece.

"Hello, Captain O'Bannon. John is on a call, and has asked me to play hostess while he's otherwise occupied."

"Thank you, EOS," Ridley replies, gathering her suitcase and her small carry-on. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Not at all," the AI assures her. "The airlock has been pressurized."

Ridley grins. "Permission to come aboard?"

"Permission granted. Welcome to Thunderbird Five."

Although Ridley's been aboard the station many times, today it feels as if she's visiting for the first time. As she steps from the shuttle to the interior airlock, she lets herself admire the construction of the station, from its pristine white surfaces to its sloping bulkheads and shining metal fittings. Global One is a bit more well-used and not as aesthetically pleasing as John's home away from home, and it always impresses her how pin-neat everything is on 'Five.

Maybe that should be a warning, she thinks, drifting along the main corridor in low-g. Her father would tell her that any man who keeps this neat a house has _Issues_ with a capital _I_. She disagrees; maybe it's because this is a work space _as well as_ a living space, hence the need to keep everything accessible at any given moment. Of course, John could be one of those people whose desks are nearly barren but whose homes are an absolute wreck. She chuckles to herself, imagining an Earthside room strewn with star charts and grammar-school solar system models, shelves cluttered with books by Carl Sagan and Douglas Adams, and the typical bachelor clothing system of a pile to wear and a pile to wash. In any event, there are more worrying quirks than being a neat-freak, she concedes with a mental shrug, and once more determines just to enjoy herself and not over-analyze her friend and host, no matter how fascinating a puzzle John Tracy might be.

Sure enough, Ridley can see John through a hatchway into the main commsphere, hovering in the midst of a group of readouts that contain far too much red for her comfort. The holographic forms of two of his brothers-both dark-headed-float on either side of him. Both faces are intense, their eyes focused on something only they can see while John feeds them info as fast as his fingers can call it from the air. As she watches, he turns to grab for another window, and her heart flips again at how composed and focused he is. She could stand here and watch him work for hours, she thinks-until she notices a tiny flicker out of the corner of her eye. A camera on an overhead track is adjusting itself, like a curious child watching its parents having an adult moment it can't quite parse.

Ridley clears her throat and forces herself to leave the view of John (the clear shot of his nicely sculpted butt is also an inducement to linger) to follow EOS into the section that houses the crew quarters. _Mind yourself, Ree,_ she thinks. Her every move on this station is being recorded and analyzed, and she really doesn't want EOS to ask John any embarrassing questions later.

"I must inform you that the crew quarters are shared," says EOS, as Ridley looks around for a spot to drop her bag. "Since the Tracy siblings are male, there has been no need thus far for separate quarters. Jefferson Tracy's ward, Tanusha Kyrano, has never been to Thunderbird Five, although I am unsure as to the reason," EOS informs her, with a thoughtful note coloring the words. "Shall I commence with what John calls the 'ten-cent tour'? Although please be assured that there will be no charge."

Keeping her face controlled and as solemn as a judge, Ridley nods to the camera on the track above her. "Please do."

The tour is soon completed: Galley, much like that at home; the familiar exercise room; workshop for experiments and projects; and finally the crew quarters, with John's bunk in one corner, facing an identical one opposite. She smiles, catching a glimpse of a photograph of him and his brothers in a magnetic frame near the head of the bunk. There is an MIT bumper sticker plastered on the wall, and several decals commemorating missions to Mars and the Moon. A light dawns; when she first began working with John, she did a search on his father, and read extensively about Jeff's career in space, so these must be mementos of a boy idolizing his heroic father. There is one more photograph taped on the wall, but as soon as she sees enough to decipher what it is, she looks away, feeling her cheeks warm. The photo is of a lovely redheaded woman, smiling at the camera. She is holding a baby in her arms, her cheek pressed against his scrawl of copper hair.

John's mother. It's at that moment Ridley realizes she's heard much about their father, but very little about this sweet-faced but formidable lady who bore five boys and raised them with her husband halfway across the solar system. Too often, she's seen relationships in the space community become casualties of too much time apart. Fear also plays a role, even in these modern times when space travel and colonization are leagues away from the missions manned by the Tracy brothers' namesakes, but less so than just simple distance and time. Even relationships between astronauts aren't immune, since many times each serve in different places, and not for the first time, Ridley wonders if she just might be crazy for even thinking about starting anything with John.

Casting a final glance at the lonely bunk with its built-in ergonomic pillow and temperature-sensing mattress-no need for bedclothes-Ridley thinks of John lying there with only memories for company, and her heart gains a spiderweb of fine cracks. She turns toward the opposite bunk, and lets herself hope that one day, she will lay there and reach across for a friendly-dare she even think it, a _loving_ -hand to hold.

"This concludes our tour," says EOS, cutting in on Ridley's musings and making her jump a fraction of an inch. "As John is fond of saying: 'Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.'"

Ridley smiles; only an astronaut would hold a sentiment like that about a place that's all angles and plastic. "I agree," she says. "Thank you for showing me around. Global One is a little bigger and a bit more diverse, but this all looks very familiar. You two are quite cozy up here, it seems."

"I am unsure how to parse that," EOS says, sounding just a little uncomfortable. "However, if you mean that Thunderbird Five is a snug and private place to inhabit with congenial company, then yes."

"That's exactly what I mean. You catch on quickly." Ridley scooped up her bag and deposited it on the bunk opposite John's, then sat down on the padded shelf and swung her legs, watching the stars slide past her feet. "Is it all right if I take a short rest? The next few days promise to be busy ones, and I'd like to be at my best." She smiles up at the lens. "Besides, who knows when he'll be done, right?"

"That is correct," EOS assures her. "The longest active rescue clocked in at forty-six hours and thirteen minutes, from the initial call to sign-off."

Ridley frowns. "You mean John-and his brothers-stayed up for almost two days straight?"

"There were three mandated rest periods, with each member rotating for two hours of downtime. John rerouted calls to the Earthside base of operations during those times." The lens twirls. "Not as efficient as handling calls here, of course, but needs must." The lens shifts again, and lowers slightly. "I had to remind John to disengage several times, and to take nourishment and see to his own needs. He can be quite single-minded."

Stretching out on the bunk with her hands behind her head and her feet propped on her bag, Ridley smiles fondly. "He feels a great responsibility," she observes, "for both his brothers and the people they help. I'm not surprised it was hard to drag him away."

A chime sounds in the station, and EOS' lights flash brilliant white. "I have been summoned, Captain. Rest well. Please help yourself to a bagel if you become hungry."

Ridley yawns, feeling delicious warmth spread under her from the mattress. "Thank you. Just wake me when…" She yawns again, and gives in to the urge to curl up like a cat on a hearth. Just knowing John is nearby feels right, and she wraps his essence, present in every surface and rivet of his station, around her like a blanket.

 _I could get used to this,_ she thinks, as sleep descends.


	6. Paradise

"Hey, Ridley."

She stirs at the sound of her name, swimming up to awareness in a place that smells both familiar and foreign: Warm electronics, oxygenated atmosphere, bland plastic and a trace of coffee. She opens her eyes, and can't help a sleepy smile at the sight that greets them.

"Hey yourself, spaceman," she murmurs, heart flipping at the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "All done saving the day?"

He chuckles, dropping to an easy crouch beside the bunk. "Something like that," he allows. "I've rerouted the calls to our central hub, so they can take care of anything that comes up for the moment. You ready to go?"

"Sure." She sits up, rubbing the last of her nap out of her eyes. The bunk below her gives a click as the automatic temperature sensor shuts off, and she sits and watches as John unlatches a small compartment to reveal several well-thumbed volumes.

"Time to rotate the reading material," he quips, plucking the books from the shelf and fastening the door back into place. He considers the books for a moment, then holds them out to her. "Unless you would like to borrow them?"

Out of respect for their rarity, she takes them carefully into her hands; their worn covers and foxed edges speak to their life as well-loved objects. She recognizes two from her own bookshelf on Global One: _The Restaurant at the End of the Universe_ by Douglas Adams and Hawking's _The Universe in a Nutshell_. _Analysis of Sensations_ by Ernst Mach was required reading in one of her courses at university, but the last one is in Japanese, and she taps the cover. "What's this one?"

He glances at the book and gives her a shy smile. " _Night on the Galactic Railroad_ by Kenji Miyazawa. I had an English translation when I was a kid, but I got this copy after I learned Japanese."

"Thank you for the kind offer, but I have Adams' omnibus at my place, and I've got a copy of Hawking." She grins, handing them back as carefully as she received them. "And unfortunately I don't read Japanese." She raises an eyebrow. "I've always been curious as to how many languages you speak-or would need to speak, in your job."

He pulls a worn leather knapsack from a compartment and deposits the books inside. "Six fluently: English, Spanish, French, German, Japanese, and Russian," he says, ticking them off matter-of-factly on his fingers. "Korean, Arabic, Hindi, and Mandarin Chinese are a little rusty, but I can get by. Out of all of those, my callers and I can usually find a common tongue." He wiggles a hand in a 'yes/no' motion. "I have a little trouble with Portuguese, but it's coming along. Danish is proving a challenge. I-"

She holds up a hand to stop his flow of words, unable to keep from laughing. "J.T., you're too much. You're not teasing me, are you?"

He blinks. "No, why would I?" She can see the moment the light dawns, and he has the grace to blush. "Oh. Well, on any given day, I'd say that French, German, Spanish and English are the ones I use the most. I guess I just like to challenge myself."

"I think that's _amazing_." When he blushes redder, she lays a hand lightly on his shoulder. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you-er, your family." To cover her slip, she gives him what she hopes is a disarming grin. "Múinfidh tú Gaelach duitse." _I'll teach you Gaelic someday._

"Hmm, pulling out the big guns." John chews his lip for a moment, thinking, then replies: "Táim ag tnúth le sin." _I look forward to that._

She laughs, delighted. "Me too."

OoOoOoOoO

Their bags in tow, John leads her to the main hallway, but then stops at the doorway to the commsphere. "Hang on, forgot something." He scoots around her, but she hesitates and just sticks her head in.

"Don't think I'm supposed to be in there, so I'll hang out," she says.

He turns to fix her with a quizzical smile. "You can come in. All of our Thunderbirds have an automatic surveillance detector built in, so if you were trying to capture images, you'd have been found out the moment you stepped aboard."

"Wow. You guys really do take security seriously." _Lame, Ree, that was lame..._

If he's noticed her consternation, he doesn't comment. Instead, he drags windows from here and there like a conductor of a spaceborne symphony. "Absolutely. It's essential that the designs of our 'Birds-both internal and external-remain proprietary." His fingers are lightning-fast, their deft motions almost hypnotic. "In fact," he continues, "in the normal course of things, all visitors to the island have to undergo a vetting process."

"Island?" She blinks. "Hence the white Christmas with sand instead of snow."

He throws a grin over his shoulder. "That's the one."

There are dots to connect here, but at the moment they're still eluding her. "Do you get many visitors?"

He continues to close some of the windows, dimming others. "Not really. Colonel Casey's been to the island a few times, but she's a family friend." His hands hesitate just a moment, then he continues with both motion and conversation. "Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward and her chauffeur Parker are regular guests as well. Our fathers collaborated when Dad was putting International Rescue together."

Ridley can't help the way her jaw drops at the name. "You're _friends_ with _Lady Penelope?"_

He turns with a smile. "Actually, she and I met briefly in college, but it's only been since iR started that we've...seen more of each other."

"Oh." Her heart is in her boots; how could she, Ridley Kathleen O'Bannon from Normal, Illinois, compete with the blonde, beautiful, and glamorous darling of London, Paris and Milan for the affections of John Tracy, son of a billionaire space hero? "So I suppose she'll be there for Christmas, too?"

"Probably. Just between you, me, and the solar power collector, I think she's got a thing for my brother Gordon." He snorts. "Which is good, because he's had a thing for her since before he was old enough to shave."

Ridley feels her heart bob back up somewhere around her ears. "I see. I guess you and your brothers move in some pretty rarefied circles."

He shrugs, giving her a chance to admire the movement of his beautifully sculpted shoulders, as well as the intriguing design of his life support apparatus-slash-wearable tool kit. "We're from Kansas, actually. All this-" he gestures to the station, to his own uniform, to the commsphere- "Has only happened in the last fifteen years. I don't think the term 'nouveau riche' carries the same disdain as it used to, but I guess that's us." He gives the dimmed readout one last look, then turns to her and grabs up his knapsack. "We've met our share of movers and shakers, but to us, family comes first."

She was talking about women, but decides not to press the point. Now and again she's had a few minutes to kill and swiped through a tabloid magazine, only to see John's handsome brothers-mostly Scott, but sometimes Virgil-caught in the unforgiving light of some paparazzi's flashbulb. "Gordon, he's the one who won the gold medal, right?"

"For the hundred-meter freestyle in the '58 Olympics, yes." He smiles, pride for his younger brother clearly visible in his eyes. "We were all so proud." A shadow passes over his face then, darkening the ocean-blue eyes a fraction, but it's gone before she can comment, and then they're at the airlock. He picks up her helmet and hands it to her, then retrieves his own-one among a half dozen, she notices-from a storage locker. "Ready to go?"

"Only if you think I've been sufficiently vetted," she quips, reaching up to activate the seal on her helmet.

John finishes his own preparations, and fiddles with his belt. In a few seconds, her headset crackles, and she realizes their comms are linked. "Actually, I already did that," he admits, going slightly pink again. "I figured you were probably pretty clean, being the captain of Global One, but it never hurts to make sure."

"What?" Ridley slaps him on the shoulder. "You're a clever boy, John Tracy."

"So I'm told," he retorts drily. He taps the airlock access, and it cycles open. "After you."

The cable that spools them down to the planet's surface is as thick as John's torso, and she's pleasantly surprised at the smoothness of their progress. Their journey is set to encompass a leisurely half-hour, but from the bits of conversation John lets out during the ride, Ridley's sure that he can accelerate the descent to a hair-raising clip when necessary. She watches him, loving how perfectly at ease he is, body relaxed and hands resting on the blocky safety harness. EOS has tagged along as well, in the form of a small red unit the size of a dessert plate that lays atop his chest.

"This will be my first Christmas, John," the AI chirps. "I apologize, but I have not chosen a gift for you."

John smiles. "That's all right, EOS. Christmas can-and should be-more about _who_ we spend it with than anything else."

"What _do_ you get the man who has everything?" Ridley quips, and it's not purely a rhetorical question. Since she first learned that she would be the guest of a family of five boys, she's ordered a basket of assorted festive snacks; the box it came in comprises the bulk of her luggage. As for John himself, she pondered the question at length, but came up with nothing.

"We tend to give each other thoughtful things," he replies. "Things that we wouldn't get ourselves. Sure, we have the money to pretty much do what we like, but we're a frugal group when it comes down to it." He shrugs. "'Waste not, want not' is still a maxim we live by. If we don't need it, we don't buy it."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh, come on. You've never succumbed to the temptation of going somewhere and saying 'I'll take one of everything'?"

He rolls his eyes. "That's _so_ not me. The things we splurge on tend to be _experiences_ more than actual _stuff-_ though I admit, we do have our share of toys."

Her eyebrow goes a fraction higher. "Such as?"

"Well, Scott loves cars. And not just your average Prius; he likes them loud and fast. He belongs to an amateur racing club at a track in the south of England. He's given a few off-duty pros a run for their money a time or two." He looks over at her with a smile. "Virgil has a pet Lamborghini. He shipped it to New Zealand for a camping trip he and Kayo took recently."

She thinks she's heard the name once, but nothing more than that. "Remind me of who Kayo is?"

"Oh, that's right. You don't know Kayo. She's…" He screws up his face, making a charming wrinkle on the bridge of his nose. "Well, she's our unofficial sister, I guess. Our fathers are business associates, and she's grown up with us. When we got older, she and Virgil decided that they felt more for each other than just brother and sister."

"That's so sweet."

"It was a little odd at first for the rest of us, but they're good for each other." He gives a shrug. "I guess when you're in a business like ours, it helps that the person you end up with knows what you're going through. You remember the incident with the comet?"

Ridley stiffens, recalling how she scrambled along the handholds for the station, and how grabbing John's outstretched hand so he could free her from the solar panels was the best moment of her life. It was also, she realizes with a start, the moment that she fell in love with him. "Sure do," is all she says.

"Kayo was the one on the ground who disabled Fischler's control for the comet, which is what allowed Alan and Virgil to get close enough to destroy it."

"Wow. Anyone else I should know about in your amazing family?"

"My grandma-my dad's mother-lives on the island with us," John adds. "She's probably the strongest person I've ever met. She keeps us all feeling like a family instead of employees," he says with a smirk. "Although I will warn you: If she offers you a cookie, please feel free to refuse. She is a terrible cook."

Ridley laughs. "Oh, dear. I take it you're ordering in for Christmas dinner?"

"Thankfully for us, it turns out that Brains-er, our engineer, Dr. Hiram Hackenbacker-is a pretty good cook. His robot, MAX, is Grandma's most valuable kitchen appliance; without him, we'd probably subsist on protein shakes and coffee." He grins at her. "Don't worry, I wouldn't invite you to starve you."

"I'm fair to middling in the kitchen myself," Ridley assures him. "I make a mean egg casserole."

"Maybe it's because we keep such weird hours, but anything breakfast is definitely a favorite in the Tracy household. You bring that to the table, you'll have friends for life."

"Entering atmosphere," EOS informs them, and Ridley can't help a small startle; she's forgotten that the AI is listening to every word. "ETA to Tracy Island: Eight minutes."

Ridley's eyebrows climb again. "Okay, so when were you going to tell me that you not only live on an _island_ , but _your own private island?"_ She barks out a laugh. "I know I shouldn't be surprised, but here I am."

John shrugs, a smile playing about his mouth, and she's never wanted to kiss him more than she does right now. "Well, I didn't want to brag. We're pretty humble folks; as my dad used to say, 'you can take the boy out of Kansas, but you can't take Kansas out of the boy." He studies her for a moment. "I apologize; I've never asked where you're from."

"Born and raised in Normal, Illinois." Now it's Ridley's turn to lean back and contemplate the ceiling with a smile. "It was a nice place to grow up. Went to school at the University of Illinois, joined the Air Force my sophomore year, and finished my degree in the service." She glances over at him, and feels a flush of warmth come over her to see that he's listening attentively. "Went to Officer Training School, then got my Master's in Astronomy. About that time, my resume crossed Casey's desk, so the GDF sent me to the Cape, and here I am." She grins. "I don't think we were at Canaveral at the same time; I'd have remembered you."

He snorts. "I was a scrawny, four-eyed ginger nerd back then. Completely unremarkable."

"You sure aren't scrawny now," Ridley counters, trying to sound more like a fellow space nerd making an observation rather than a lovesick fangirl. "Keeping that zero-g atrophy at bay."

He shrugs, but smiles in acknowledgement of the compliment. "That was before Virgil convinced me that I could bench more than just the bar, and Scott convinced me that I had to consume more calories than what was in a twice-daily venti soy latte." A wry grin. "The rest is just well-padded neoprene."

To her horror, a giggle slips out before she can stop it. "Uh, what about the glasses?"

A heavy sigh. "That's what eventually did me in at NASA. Thank goodness Dad had cooked up iR by that time, or I'd have been grounded for sure. I wear contacts that interface with my display up at the station." He smiles. "I still wear the glasses dirtside. Speaking of, here we are."

As the machine beneath them slows, Ridley leans back in her seat and stares unseeing at the ceiling again. Just the thought of John with glasses threatens to make her ovulate on the spot, but as the harnesses release, she once again resigns herself to being a model guest. No assumptions, no expectations. _Friendly._

The door is barely open when voices-one is Alan, the other she doesn't know-break the tranquility inside the elevator. "Hey, spaceman!" This is the unfamiliar voice, bright with the energy of sunlight on waves. "Merry Christmas, you big nerd!"

John scoops up EOS's disc and unlatches his own harness. "I apologize in advance," he says cryptically, then gets to his feet as the doors fully slide open. "Hey, you two." He turns to Ridley, and she duly steps forward to be presented. "This is Captain O'Bannon of the GDF," he says, eyeing both of them sternly. "Alan, you remember the Captain."

"Oh yeah!" He grins, flashing an adorable set of dimples as well as a sprinkling of freckles across his nose that are more visible than John's subtler set. "Eden, and the space pirates."

"The very same." She shakes his outstretched hand. "And please, call me Ridley."

Alan jerks a thumb toward the tanned dishwater blond to his right. "This is Gordon. He's part fish, but he _has_ been to Europa with me, so he's got some space cred."

"Hey, when the Pendergasts call, I answer," retorts the elder, his amber eyes alight with mischief. "How d'you do, Ridley? Welcome to Tracy Island."

The grip in hers is calloused-as she suspects will be the case for everyone in this family-and the arms bared by his ' _I Sea You'_ tank top are sharply defined with muscle. He is built like a bulldog, but has the quick, inquisitive manner of a Jack Russell terrier. She likes him immediately. "Nice to meet you, Gordon. I'm glad to be here."

"What's the situation upstairs?" John asks, as Gordon bounces forward to grab Ridley's luggage. They step off the elevator into a space that soars above their heads, and her feet refuse to move as her head drops back of its own volition.

"Damn," she breathes, trying not to trip on her own feet as she cranes her neck at the scenery. To her right sits a sleek silver craft, and with a start, she realizes she's looking at the world-famous Thunderbird One, as evidenced by the badging on her hull. All around are yellow and black striped railings, walls, outcroppings, and unidentifiable machines, every surface emblazoned with stencil-painted CAUTION signs. A huge circular construction-vent? Turbine?-looking like a giant's lemon squeezer is bolted to the wall above her head, topped with a slender catwalk that wraps around a bank of observation windows. High above, so high that it nearly disappears into the darkness, the top of the cavern arches like a cathedral, and she frowns in puzzlement: How _do_ they get the rocketship-rocket _ships_ , she corrects, recalling the mighty Thunderbird Three-out from underground?

Such answers will have to come later, if at all, because the three Tracys have made it their business to prod her gently along the walkway toward a more conventional elevator. "The situation is 'smoky,'" says Alan, having to do a little trip-hop to keep up with John's longer stride. "Grandma tried to make plum pudding."

"Yeah, the part where you set the booze on fire didn't work out so good," Gordon contributes. "MAX was quick with the extinguisher, though."

Now it's John who stops in his tracks to round on his siblings. "Who the hell encouraged Grandma to flambé a Christmas pudding?" he demands.

Each points to the other. "It was him," they chorus.

He eyes them with brotherly disapproval, and Ridley hides her smile behind her hand. "I'll just bet," John muses, turning back to the elevator with Ridley in tow. Just before she follows in John's footsteps, Gordon thwaps Alan on the back of the head, then ducks as Alan lets fly with a swat of his own.

"Children, settle," John barks, not turning around. "Again, I apologize," he murmurs.

Ridley chuckles as the sounds of brotherly struggle continue behind them. "They're a riot. They should take their act out on the road," she quips.

"The world isn't ready for that," he says drily, as they stop in front of the elevator doors. He lays his hand on the palm reader and the doors open. "You two coming?"

In answer, they tumble in after Ridley like a pair of puppies, pushing and shoving each other good-naturedly despite John's warning glare. As an only child suddenly faced with this large family, she can't help but giggle and snort at their antics. Not wanting to encourage them, she tries to affect a more solemn expression, but it's too late. Those wide innocent eyes and cheeky grins tell the tale: They have a fresh audience for their horseplay and humor. John sighs, the picture of longsuffering, and she tucks her arm into his in a gesture of support.

She is unspeakably gratified when he doesn't pull away.

The elevator delivers them into a space redolent of spice floating on the cool air-conditioned atmosphere-and yes, if she concentrates a little, a faint tang of charcoal underlies the smell of holiday baking. The boys tumble out into the teak-floored expanse, Alan diverting to the open room on the right and Gordon breaking left to carry Ridley's gear up the stairs.

Ridley darts around John to intercept. "Gordon!"

Her voice halts his steps immediately, and he trots back down. "You rang?"

She takes the bag from him and sets it down, then unzips it and pulls the box from its innards, leaving the bag mostly deflated. "This is from me to all of you, for allowing me to share the holiday with your family." She turns to put the box in John's hands, and he takes it, blinking in surprise.

"Oh-uh, that wasn't necessary, but thank you." He looks at the box for a moment, as if unsure what to do with it, and looks terribly grateful when Ridley takes the box back. "That's very kind of you."

"I'm just glad to have somewhere to go," she assures him, and gives the box to Gordon. "I think you'll know just what to do with it."

"Hey, thanks! Ooh, Snaks-R-Us, good choice! I love their garlic plantain chips, they're the best." Gordon gives her a smile, but his eyes flick between her and his brother in an all-too calculating manner; Ridley can practically hear the gears whirring in his head. "I think I'll go find a box cutter," he says, while John picks up her deflated bag. "I like her already," he stage-whispers to John, giving Ridley a broad wink.

John colors to the ears, and clutches her bag a little tighter. "I'll just put this in your room. Er, your guest room. Er-" He breaks off abruptly, scurrying up the stairs to the private quarters floor at a quick march despite his heavy boots.

Gordon snorts, but doesn't comment further. "Okay, so: Do you wanna get out of the hardware first," he says, nodding to her space suit, "or do you want the five-dollar tour so you know where everything's at?"

On the floor above, Ridley hears John's quick steps and then a door shuts; apparently he's deposited her gear and holed himself up in his own quarters. "I'd love to lose the 'hardware', as you call it," she answers. "How about I meet you back here in half an hour?"

He sketches her a salute. "That'll give me time to bust open the snacks and pick out what I'm gonna hoard, er, share with my loving brothers." He grins. "See you then."

The guest quarters she's been given are, in a word, luxurious. More spacious than the one-bedroom apartment that she keeps in Florida, everything is furnished in a jet-age style that focuses on clean lines and sleek finishes. The bed, a plump mattress atop a low platform, is made with spotless white sheets and no fewer than six pillows. In the direct center of the pillows is a small card with a hand-lettered message: _Welcome to Tracy Island._ A tiny palm tree decorated with a diminutive string of lights is sketched in one corner. A stick-figure astronaut is seated under the tree, pineapple drink in hand and an expression of bliss on its simple features. The sketch is signed: _VGT Xmas '61._ Ridley smiles down at it, feeling warmth spread from her heart outward. If nothing else comes from this visit, she thinks, carefully stashing the card in a pocket of her bag, she will at least have a new group of friends to her credit.

Having left her helmet in the space elevator, Ridley shucks off the hardsuit and leaves it draped over a chair, then unzips the black form-fitting undersuit-which is not unlike what John wears, now that she thinks about it. Of course, she muses, as she takes a moment to decipher the multi-head shower, _his_ is no doubt imbued with his father's brand of technology, measuring all sorts of bio stats as well as keeping him connected with the Earthside base and all of his brothers. Hers feels more like long underwear with a cord up the back to plug in to her hardsuit, but it serves much the same purpose. _More alike than different_ , she supposes, and steps into the shower.

In no time at all, she is clean, dry, and ruffling her curls into a damp halo with a sumptuous white towel. She digs out casual clothes: Plain black hipsters; a black sports bra; well-worn skinny jeans; a t-shirt printed with cartoon drawings of the solar system surrounding the slogan ' _I need more space.'_ She considers the slipper socks, but tosses them back in her bag in favor of a pair of huaraches. A quick dusting of powder, a swipe of mascara, a dot of lip gloss, and the mirror gives her the verdict: Entirely presentable. She gives her a reflection a nod of satisfaction, and leaves her luxurious nest to meet her tour guide.

He's there, seated on the bottom step, happily munching away on a bowl of cheese popcorn from the gift basket. As she watches, Gordon tosses a kernel in the air and catches it in his mouth, grinning to himself at his prowess. She clears her throat so as not to startle him (and thus end up with the popcorn all over the floor), and he turns with a smile. "Hey there." He sniffs the air. "Wow. You sure smell better than anyone around here."

She descends the steps, taking a handful of popcorn as he proffers the bowl. "Oh, I don't know. I think certain high born ladies who wear French perfume would smell even better," she says, low, before popping a kernel into her mouth.

Gordon coughs as if some of the popcorn has stuck in his throat. "I guess Johnny's been telling tales." He sighs. "Remind me to murder him in his sleep." He stands and gestures to the house that sprawls before them. "I present to you: The Tracy villa. Please to be enjoying."

They move through the lounge, and she takes a moment to admire the oil portraits of each member of International Rescue hung along the back wall. John gazes back at her, captured with a hint of a smile beginning at the corners of his mouth, eyes bright and determined, copper hair gelled into a perfect, knife-edge flick. The colors of his uniform are bright and bold, and she finds herself lingering on the rolling slope of his shoulders as they push at the edges of the frame.

A discreet cough sounds off to her left, and she shakes herself. "Handsome family," she remarks-and turns to find herself staring up into the living version of the portrait. "Oh!"

She's glad to see that he, too, has opted for casual, appearing at her elbow in a heather grey NASA tee-shirt and jeans; both garments look as if he's had them forever, and they ride his tall frame with easy grace. His eyes flick to her own shirt, and he smiles. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." He lifts his head to survey his family. "At the risk of sounding conceited, I'll agree with you. My parents had a pretty good combination of DNA."

She looks around. "Where'd Gordon run off to?"

"Oh, he said he had a thing to do, and he was happy to turn over the tour to me." John's sly smirk tells her he knows that isn't the truth-or at least, all of it.

"I was only teasing. I didn't mean to embarrass him, poor thing."

His eyebrows climb. "Gordon, embarrassed? That's an accomplishment, especially for someone who's only been here forty-five minutes. What _did_ you say to him?" he asks, as they stroll toward the stairwell.

"He told me I smelled better than anyone else in the house," she says with a chuckle. "I said that I could think of one other person-a certain lady who wears French perfume-who might smell better."

"You catch on quick." To her surprise, John leans over and takes a discreet sniff of the air in her direction. "However, I agree with him. When you grow up with four other guys, you sort of get used to a general stink. You're literally a breath of fresh air."

She can't think of a thing to say to that, so she just slaps his shoulder. "Thanks. I think. Anyway, what's our next stop?"

He waves a hand at the transparent walls, and they ripple with a shimmering honeycomb pattern. "Fun fact: Our solar panels can store enough energy to power the entire house for forty-eight hours," he says. "When your house is built on a tropical island, you find ways to make use of all the sunshine."

"I'm sure," she remarks, and then they're outside on the cement deck headed toward an Olympic-sized pool. It strikes her that having a chlorinated pool is an odd amenity for an island, but then she remembers that one) Gordon is a gold medal swimmer and two) the Tracys are insanely rich. "I'm sure this is Gordon's favorite part of the house."

"His second favorite," John answers cryptically. "It's especially beautiful out here at night." He gestures to a four-poster bed on the far side of the pool, gauzy hangings fluttering in the sea breeze. "I like to sleep out here more often than not when I'm home."

"I can see why." She stops and does a 360, taking in volcanic rock, tropical flora, the sleek house wedged into the side of the mountain, and the white-sand beach with turquoise water stretching away in all directions. "How in the world did your dad find this place?"

John thinks a moment. "I've heard a couple of different versions of the tale over my lifetime, no doubt embellished for young ears as an entertaining bedtime story. The one with the most truth to it, in my opinion, is that he happened upon the island in the course of some survival training."

"You mean, he stranded himself here on purpose, in case of an off-course splashdown?"

The wind ruffles his hair, giving away the fact that he, too, has made use of the shower, and hasn't re-applied the gel. She decides she likes it better this way, and tries not to think about running her fingers through it. "Right. He said that in the course of exploring the island for edibles, he came across this lagoon. When the exercise was over, he kept the coordinates, and the rest is history."

They move along the deck to the stairs down to the beach; it's then she notices John's feet are bare, and she kicks off her sandals to stick them down the back of her jeans. The sand is warm and fine, and with a sigh of contentment, she buries her feet in it up to her ankles. "Just the logistics of building the house, the hangar-" She stops, words failing her as they begin to walk down the beach. "It boggles my mind. I know _why_ he did it, but-wow."

John, hands jammed in his pockets, smiles down at their feet churning the sand. "He and Brains crunched the numbers, and they came to the conclusion that having our base here gives us the best strategic advantage, on a global scale." They skirt a clump of seaweed and driftwood the size of a sofa. "Plus, if someone's thinking about poking their nose into our business, we'll see them coming from a long way off."

"Twenty-two thousand miles off?" she teases, and he flashes a smile at her.

"That too." They stop and look back the way they came, the house and lagoon hidden behind an outcropping of rock and a stretch of snow-white sand. If she didn't know the house was there, she could believe that she and John were the only humans for thousands of nautical miles. She shivers; such a thought is by turns thrilling and disquieting.

"Cold?" The charming little wrinkle of worry reappears between his brows. "The wind's pretty brisk this side of the island, all year round."

"No, no. I was just thinking…" She hugs her elbows to her. "Once the house is out of sight, this is a lonely place." She raises a hand to shade her eyes. "I can't even imagine what your dad felt his first night here."

He says nothing, but slips his hand into hers and leads her forward again. They walk in silence, listening as the waves and the wind buffet the island. The sun has just touched the horizon when he stops and helps her climb what looks to be a well-worn path cut into the side of the mountain. When they're at the top of the cliff, they turn to survey their progress, and Ridley can't help an indrawn breath at the view. Now they can see the house from a distance, set like a tiara on the brow of a volcanic goddess, the folds of her deep black robes trimmed with white and jeweled turquoise.

John leans down and points toward the house. "Do you see the curved roof with the windows?"

She suppresses another shiver at how close he is, and nods. "Yes. Is that part of the house?"

"It is; we call it the Roundhouse." He grins. "That's where Thunderbird Three launches from."

Ridley laughs. "What, through the middle of the house? That's a hell of a wake-up call."

He shrugs. "Like I said, we don't get many visitors, but you're right; they'd be in for a big surprise." He points down to where the pool glimmers, the light set into its floor blinking into life with the coming of sunset. "Remember what you saw in the hangar? Take a guess what's under the pool."

She laughs. "Wow. Do you guys have to drain it every time you launch Thunderbird One?"

"No, thank God. It retracts, water and all."

Ridley stands and looks at the pool, marveling once again at the engineering that went into the servos and motors that would move the staggering weight of masonry and water at a moment's notice. "John, your dad is either crazy, or a genius."

"Probably a little of both," he allows. "To us, he's just Dad."

They head back down the path to the beach, and as they walk, Ridley decides that she doubts this highly. Not in a literal sense, as all of them have a striking similarity to each other that speak of a common sire, but the shoes of an astronaut hero billionaire are large ones to fill. Such a man could never be 'just Dad,' no more than International Rescue could be 'just a job.'

"How long has he been gone?" she asks, the softness of the words betraying more of her heart than she planned.

"Four years, six months, twenty-two days." He taps the chrono strapped to his wrist. "Sixteen hours, forty-seven-forty- _eight_ minutes."

His unflinching precision tears at her, and Ridley bites her lip against the tears that well up. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you." He casts his gaze to the sea, squinting against the wind. "We'll find him. One way or another." He shrugs. "It's just a matter of time."

She takes his hand and squeezes, her throat too tight to speak.


End file.
